


Flower Petals

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Maglor is a hopeless romantic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flower Petals

“ _Maitimoooo…_ ”

Maitimo closed his book with resignation. He should probably have known better than to hope for an evening of peace. He got up from his chair, and was about to say “come in” when the door of his room flew open, and there stood Macalaurë. He was wearing a rich, wine-coloured velvet coat, heavy and formal for the time of year, and his hair was elaborately braided. Someone, it appeared, had placed a wreath of pale pink and white flowers on his head, which had slipped down a little over one eye. On his face was a large lopsided grin.

“ _I’m in love_ , Russandol!” he declared. Then he flopped down on the bed, eyes half-closed, humming a tune under his breath. He seemed perfectly content.

Maitimo blinked.

“Macalaurë… just… how much did you have to drink after the performance?”

That night Macalaurë had been playing accompaniment at a performance by the students from the dance school in Tirion, as a favour for his first and greatest musical mentor.

“Hmmm… a bit” he admitted, still smiling serenely.

Maitimo sighed.

“But Maitimo, I think I love her! She’s one of the dancers, I met her after the show, we all went to the main square to celebrate… and she was there with some other girls, but none of them were… well none were anything like her. We were drinking strawberry wine, and it was the mingling of the lights and everything was beautiful…”

He raised a sceptical eyebrow. “So you’ve known her… what? A few hours? And you’re in love.”

“Yes” said Macalaurë, entirely seriously. “She’s so beautiful, Maitimo! She has curly dark hair, and bright brown eyes, and she is the most wonderful dancer in all Tirion. No, in all the world! And she’s so clever, too, and we talked about music and art and poetry, and I wrote her a song…” he started humming the same tune as before.

Suddenly the door burst open again, and Tyelkormo entered the room, without knocking.

“Maitimo, there’s a trail of  _flower petals_ , of all things, leading all around the house, and I followed it to your room. What are you…” he noticed Macalaurë on the bed. “What happened to  _him_?”

“Well, apparently, he’s in love” said Maitimo dryly “also, I think he’s fairly drunk.”

“In love, hmm? Go on then Macalaurë, what’s her name?”

Macalaurë blushed, muttering something inaudible.

“What’s that?”

“I… I forgot to ask. It didn’t seem important at the time!”

Tyelkormo burst out laughing. Even Maitimo had to smile. “Tyelko, the two of you should go to Tirion and try to find her again tomorrow! I’m certain he’ll be miserable otherwise, and we’ll never hear the end of his songs about tragic lost love. That is, if he still remembers her tomorrow…”

Tyelkormo grinned wolfishly. “I can do that. I know every pretty girl in Tirion. Although some of ‘em didn’t seem as pretty the next morning…”

Macalaurë sat up and hurled his wreath of flowers at Tyelkormo’s head. It missed spectacularly and hit the wall, showering Maitimo’s room with an explosion of flower petals.

“Tyelko!” Maitimo began, “Has anyone ever told you what a arrogant, unpleasant -”

“Yes” interrupted Tyelkormo cheerfully, “in fact you spend quite a lot of your time telling me such things, brother dear.”

“Anyway” said Maitimo “You can talk like that all you want, but we all know Irissë has you wrapped around her little finger. You would probably be writing her sad love songs yourself if you had any talent whatsoever-”

He ducked as Tyelkormo, blushing furiously, picked up what remained of the wreath and threw it at him.

Tyelkormo collected himself, looking injured. “That was harsh, Russandol. Anyway, you’re one to talk!” He picked up a red tunic that was hanging on the back of Maitimo’s chair and draped it over his head. He stood on tiptoe and put on a high voice. “ _Oh Findekáno! Look at me Findekáno! Yes, you’re right, Findekáno! Will you marry meeee Findekáno?_ ”

Maitimo didn’t even dignify this with a response. Instead he gave a dramatic, put-upon sigh, and contemplated Macalaurë, who had now fallen asleep on his bed, the smile still on his face.

“I suppose we had better get him to his own room, before amil or atar find out. And then, Tyelko, you’re going to pick up all these flower petals.”


End file.
